


The Corner Shop

by onstraysod



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Armed Robbery, Arson, Bad Customer Service, Bad Customers, Bad workplaces, Comedy, Crack, Gen, Just generally bad behavior, M/M, Shoplifting, a lot of swearing, at least attempted, complete nonsense, of the highest order
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-29 04:23:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20790587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onstraysod/pseuds/onstraysod
Summary: Sol Tozer works the late shift at a corner shop. His co-worker and a devious shoplifter are about to make Sol's bad night even worse.





	The Corner Shop

**Author's Note:**

> For mannisbaratheon - Happy Birthday!

The people along the river called the corner shop The Lobster, due to the bright red shade of its paint job and its employees’ shirts. Sol hated everything about his job there, from the aforesaid shirts to the night shifts that were an endless parade of London’s most annoying customers, and that evening was already ranking as one of the worst in recent memory.

It started with the posh git with the Jaw and the Hair who referred to his Jag as “the kitty.”

“Filling up the kitty,” he told Sol, flashing a fat wallet full of plastic and Euros as he paid for his petrol. ‘Hot date tonight. London Philharmonic.” He winked. “Mezzanine.”

Sol handed back the git’s change with a nod. “I hope you and your mum have a nice time.”

The git’s square jaw practically dislocated itself in rage. “For your information, I never knew my mother,” he snarled, “and it _hurts!_”

And the git huffed back outside to his kitty, knocking over a display of cheap sunglasses in his rush. Which meant that Sol spent the next tedious twenty minutes sliding each pair back into their appointed slots, finishing just in time for his next favorite customer to arrive.

This one was a regular, an Irishman who looked like a washed-up sea captain and smelled like a distillery explosion. He took a lotto ticket that appeared to have gone through several wash cycles from the pocket of his coat and slid it across the counter for Sol to check.

“Sorry. Not a winner.”

The man sniffed. “I just hoped I’d be able to buy Sophia something nice for her birthday…"

“Yeah, pops, we’ve all got our sorrows. Give her my number and tell her I’ve got something nice for her right here.” Sol gestured to his crotch.

That’s when the Irishman attempted to launch himself bodily across the counter, but his depth perception failed him and he bounced off, falling backwards… into the sunglasses display.

“Fuck my life,” Sol muttered.

“…what I’m due!” the Irishman screamed, apropos of nothing, as he backed out the door.

So by the time the tosser in the clown costume came in to purchase fifteen boxes of matches and a half dozen lighters, Sol didn’t even bat an eye.

“Burning up somebody’s tiny car tonight?” he asked.

The clown seethed haughtily beneath his layers of greasepaint. “I’ll have you know I’m a _physician_.”

“Yeah, and I’m on the shortlist for prime minister. Get your Pennywise arse outta my shop,” Sol grumbled beneath his breath as the large red shoes stomped out the door. Sighing, Sol grabbed his jacket. “Watch the register, Billy, I’m going for a smoke.”

Adding to Sol’s woes was the decision, made by the management of the chain of shops a few months previously, to install a chippy in each of the locations. This meant that, for some weeks now, Sol had no longer been able to privately wallow in his misery each night, but had had to suffer under the doleful gaze of his new co-worker, Billy Gibson, human cadaver. Billy spent his shifts frying fish and chips and staring at the television screen with a blank look on his face while both fish _and_ chips burned, but at least his presence allowed Sol to take more frequent breaks.

“This is your third smoke break in an hour,” Billy whined, wrenching his gaze away from an episode of _EastEnders_. Sol paused and turned in a full circle, looking around him.

“Do you see them?”

“See what?”

“All my fucks. I thought I’d lost them.”

Sneering, Billy flipped him off as he pushed open the door and retreated into the cool night air.

The street in front was blissfully empty, at least for the moment. Leaning up against the storefront, Sol pulled a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket and was about to flick his lighter when he heard footsteps approaching. Peering down the pavement, he got a glimpse of glossy black hair and knew it was the local woman who walked her dog every night: a white monstrosity about the size of a small polar bear that looked like it fed on whole seals and bared its fangs at Sol whenever it saw him. The woman usually paid Sol no mind, but Sol had never tried speaking to her before. He held off lighting his cigarette and stood taller; what did he have to lose? Giving her a crooked grin as she passed, he nodded.

“Hey.”

“Piss off.”

And she pulled the dog along before it could lunge at Sol; as it was, Sol could hear the snap of its fangs quite distinctly.

“Nice dog by the way!” he yelled after her, flicking his lighter. “Fucking poodle.”

Just as he got his cigarette lit, the sky opened and the rain came pouring. Swearing, and including the Queen and every branch of the royal family in his imprecations, Sol ran back inside the shop.

Behind the counter, Billy hurriedly closed the register.

“What were you doing in the register, Billy?” Sol shook the rain off his jacket; the cadaver looked vaguely uncomfortable.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Cause it looked to me like you were doing something.”

“Just… counting.” Billy backed away as Sol took a step towards him, but he didn’t move away from the counter.

“That’s what your fingers and toes are for. Keep your beak out of my register, yeah?” When Billy still didn’t retreat, Sol made a sweeping motion with his hand and gestured at the chippy. “Go fry something. Or were you waiting for me to go take a piss so you could skim a few off the top?”

“Sod off, Tozer. You’re such a straitlaced prick, you know that? You say you hate this job, but you constantly act like you’re angling for a promotion. To what? Regional manager of all _two_ east London shops? Hoping for a raise so you can buy something nice for your boyfriend Bill Heather…Oh!” Billy gasped, holding his hand to his mouth in mock apology. “I forgot…”

“It was a freak parkour accident, you skinny little fuck!” Sol shouted, his voice trembling. “And head injuries are no laughing matter!”

“Whatever.” Billy wandered back to the fish stand as Sol fumed.

The bell on the door chimed and something that looked like a human grease stain oozed into the shop. Sol groaned. “I’ve had about enough of skeevy waifs for one evening.”

The grease stain, one corner of his mouth curved upward in a perpetual smirk, slid slowly along each aisle, looking casually to his right and left at the merchandise. In the middle aisle, dead ahead of where Sol leaned against the counter, scrutinizing him carefully, the stain stopped beside a display of half price beef jerky. As Sol watched, the stain - facing away from him - grabbed about six jerky sticks and stuffed them down the front of his jeans, loosening his trousers enough that they sagged in the back and exposed his arse.

“…the actual fuck…” Sol muttered.

As the stain hitched up his jeans, Sol approached him, blocking his way as he swiveled around.

“Evening.”

“I’m going to need you to take that out of your trousers.”

One ginger eyebrow shot skyward. “Wow. Might try buying me dinner first.”

“I saw you put half-price meat down your jeans.”

The stain’s shit-eating grin grew three sizes, like the Grinch’s heart. “I can assure you, my meat is full price and worth every penny.”

“Shoplifting, you little shit,” Sol growled. “Jerky out before I call you in.”

“Relax.” The stain held up both hands in a gesture of peace, but then - instead of removing the jerky - he put a cigarette in his mouth and produced a lighter. “We’re all friends here.”

“You can’t fucking smoke in here, you twat--"

“You know what? You need to-" the stain spread his fingers and pushed them gently against Sol’s chest "-free your mind.”

“And you need to-" Sol pushed the stain backwards into the shelf of crisps "-not touch me.”

“All right, all right. But see, you and I: we’ve got more in common than you might think.” The stain’s smirk spread across his face like a bad skin condition, and he held out one hand. “You can call me Cornelius.”

“Thanks, I’d rather not. Got another choice?”

The stain - Cornelius - tapped the side of his nose and glanced past Sol to where Billy had moved back behind the counter. “He’s sharper than you let on, Billy.”

Sol spun to face his co-worker. “You know this tosser?”

Billy shrugged, or made the equivalent movement of his scapula. “We’re kind of dating.”

“Kind of? _Billy_.” Cornelius laid his hand on his chest as if wounded. “You’re wearing my ring.”

“I’m wearing _a ring_, which we all know you lifted from a corpse before you got sacked--"

“Corpse?” Sol echoed.

Now it was Cornelius’s turn to shrug in whatever way a walking globule of grease could. “I worked at a funeral home for awhile, but I quit.”

“Sacked,” Billy said loudly.

“Moved on to bigger things--"

“Sacked. For stealing,” Billy added.

Sol took a step back from the stain. “You stole jewelry off dead people?”

Cornelius made a noncommittal gesture. “Among other stuff.”

“What other stuff could you steal off dead people?”

“Not important. Look, Sol,” Cornelius grasped his arm, eagerly changing the subject. “Can I call you Sol?”

“No.”

“Look, Billy’s told me all about how much you hate this place, so, I propose you join the two of us in our little venture.”

“What vent--" Turning back to the counter, Sol met Billy’s dead-eyed gaze before rounding back on Cornelius. “Wait, you’ve been distracting me so he could empty the register, haven’t you?”

Cornelius grinned. “Well… yeah. But Sol,” he cooed soothingly as Sol began to combust, “we’re going to split it three ways, yeah? And better we have it than the arse what owns this dump, right? Hey Billy, what’s his name again?”

“Sir John.”

“Yeah, better us than Sir John. I mean, we deserve it, don’t we? Come on, join us! Besides,” Cornelius’s hand caressed up Sol’s red sleeve, closing around the bulge of his bicep, “we could use some guns. Some big, firm guns…” He licked his lips. “And judging by what I’m feeling there, I can only speculate on what else you’re packing…”

Sol grinned. “What I’m packing would split you in half like a rotisserie chicken. But knowing guys like you, you’d probably like that.”

Unbelievably, the stain’s grin just got bigger. “I love rotisserie.”

“I swear to God,” Billy groaned, rolling his eyes.

“So what do you say, Sol?” Cornelius asked, leering. “Ready to break free?”

Sol looked around. Billy slid the last stack of notes into his trousers. _EastEnders_ went to a commercial. The oil in the fish fryer popped.

“Why the hell not?” Sol said.

“Yes! Billy, sabotage the fryer,” Cornelius said, jerking a thumb in the direction of the chippy. “Let’s burn this mother--"

“Wait, nobody said anything about arson--" Sol protested, but the other men had already dragged him out the door.

The rain had stopped and they walked toward the river, Cornelius puffing casually on his cigarette and drawing one pack of jerky after another out of his crotch. “We’ve got big plans, Sol,” he was saying. “I’m talking investments. Frozen dinners, huh? I mean, who doesn’t like frozen dinners? I’m going to start a whole new line. First one’s gonna be veal cutlet tomato. Of course, it’s not actually going to be veal--"

“Cornelius.” Billy took the stick of jerky out of his mouth and pointed up ahead.

Two men were walking in their direction from the riverfront. In the glow of the street lamps, Sol could only see that they were both dark-haired and were holding hands, but apparently Cornelius saw something more. With a delighted snicker, he shoved Sol and Billy into the mouth of a narrow alley.

“I’ll lift some spare change off the emo and his twink boyfriend,” Cornelius whispered, whipping a switchblade from his pocket. Sol stuttered a protest; Billy slapped a hand over his mouth. “Watch and learn, Sol. Watch and learn.”

Like a more irritating version of Spring-Heeled Jack, Cornelius jumped out of the alley, landing right in front of the two men and bringing them to an abrupt standstill. Grinning, he brandished the switchblade.

“I’m going to need your wallets, gentlemen.”

The depressed-looking man with the beard and doe eyes sighed heavily and swore as he started pulling his wallet from the pocket of his jeans. His pretty, big-eyed boyfriend began to do the same: then, suddenly, a flash of silver, a quick movement, and a knife blade was pressed to Cornelius’s jugular.

“And I’m going to need you to apologize before I make it so you can eat through your throat,” the pretty one snarled in a Marylebone accent.

The switchblade clattered to the pavement and Cornelius held up both hands. “Sorry,” he squeaked, backing up carefully as soon as the pretty man let him loose. When he was at a safe distance, he paused. “Just out of curiosity, is that-- is that a butter knife?”

“I’m in service!” the pretty one snapped, and grabbing his boyfriend’s arm, he hurried off into the darkness.

Cornelius returned to the alley to the sound of Billy slow-clapping.

“You just got your ass handed to you,” Sol sneered, “by a butler.”

“That was an anomaly.” Cornelius held up his hands in a pedantic manner. “And, technically, I think he was a footman. Possibly a valet, depending on the house--"

“I’m going back to the shop, what the fuck was I thinking?” Sol emerged from the alley and turned the corner just in time to see flames erupting from the shop’s front windows.

Cornelius laid a hand on his shoulder. “Looks like you’re stuck with us, Sol.”

Sol sighed. “I’m going to die in prison.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please forgive any outdated or incorrect British slang, I am but a humble and admiring American.


End file.
